I Love Rumors Quotes

You see!" said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at Lupin. "She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!" "It's different," said Lupin, barely moving his lips and looking suddenly tense. "Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely-" "But I don't care either, I don't care!" said Tonks, seizing the front of Lupin's robes and shaking them. "I've told you a million times...." And the meaning of Tonk's Patronus and her mouse-colored hair, and the reason she had come running to find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor someone had been attacked by Greyback, all suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all. "And I've told you a million times," said Lupin, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, "that I am too old for you, too poor....too dangerous...." "I've said all along you're taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus," said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur's shoulder as she patted her on the back. "I am not being ridiculous," said Lupin steadily. "Tonks deserves somebody young and whole." "But she wants you," said Mr. Weasley, with a small smile. "And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so." He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them. "This is....not the moment to discuss it," said Lupin, avoiding everybody's eyes as he looked around distractedly. "Dumbledore is dead...." "Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world," said Professor McGonagall curtly...

When I remember that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely, dire summer, it seems that in those days I ate my lunches, smelled another's skin, noticed a shade of yellow, even simply sat, with greater lust and hopefulness - and that I lusted with greater faith, hoped with greater abandon. The people I loved were celebrities, surrounded by rumor and fanfare; the places I sat with them, movie lots and monuments. No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything.

Simple minded people do things like gossip, lie, spread rumors, and cause troubles. But, I know you're more intelligent.

My sisters were the coolest people I knew, and still are. I have always aspired to be like them and know what they know. My sisters were the color and noise in my black-and-white boy world-how I pitied my friends who had brothers. Boys seemed incredibly tedious and dim compared to my sisters, who were always a rush of energy and excitement, buzzing over all the books, records, jokes, rumors and ideas we were discovering together. I grew up thriving on the commotion of their girl noise, whether they were laughing or singing or staging an intervention because somebody was wearing stirrup pants. I always loved being lost in that girl noise.

I don’t care. They can think what they want.” “Since when? What happened to the nervous, mysterious, guarded Abby I know and love?” “She died from the stress of all the rumors and assumptions.

My life is over. My one forever love has been snatched away, condemned by my own father's rules to die, just because he loved me. I am without a home, without a single person to love. And after having discovered love, lived for a short while surrounded by love, that is to much to bear. I am a pariah, at church, at school. The few people I once called friends have betrayed me and caused the death of my husband, our innocent child. And so they should die too. All of them. Dad. Bishop Crandall. Trevor, Becca, Emily. With the pull of a 10mm hair trigger, their lives will end at sacrament meeting. Such lovely irony! And when I finish there, I'll hide in the desert, reload, and go in search of Carmen and Tiffany, who started the rumors. And Derek, just because.

She was a vision in a white gown her dark hair forming a hazy halo around her rosy heart-shaped face. Her long lashes fluttered to touch her cheeks and then her eyes opened fully in his direction. Her small round mouth flexed in an immediate and knowing smile. That's the girl I'm going to marry Henry thought.

There are two rumors about breaking up that I feel might be helpful to address here. One is that breakups should be clean. The other is that you should only breakup when you're not in love. The truth is, breakups are usually messy, the way people are messy, the way life is often messy. I's okay for a breakup to feel like a disaster. It doesn't feel okay, but I assure you it is okay. It's also true that you can breakup with someone you still love. Because those two things are not distinct territories: love and not loving anymore.

Because the mind is a fragile thing,” I say once again. “It’s easier to pretend the words you hear are just rumors or lies. It’s not so easy to ignore something you can see. And the sheriff has plenty he doesn’t want anyone to see.

Host: For those of you just tuning in, our guests tonight are the amazing Murder Magician, and his lovely minion, The Assistant... Assistant: Charmed, I'm sure Host: Who recently killed The Rumor. And you were awarded the Oppenheimer prize for villainy at last week's annual summit for dastardly deeds-- what are you going to do with all that money? Murder Magician: Well, I'm so glad you asked that-- because I spent all the money on this giant MURDERBOT, and I've been dying to show it off! Assistant: It's true... every penny. Host: Wow! That's impressive! So what does it do? Murder Magician: Well, Mr. Clark... it murders people. Laughter. Murder Magician: I'm serious. Assistant: He is.

Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little skeptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove; I caused a rumor to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not-I could not-marry Miss Ingram. You-you strange-you almost unearthly thing!-I love as my own flesh. You-poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are-I entreat to accept me as a husband.

The pop star, "Michael Jackson" was believed by some to be a member of the illuminati cult sect and a paedophile, but i'm totally indifferent about this rumor, and i truly love him for his magnanimity towards humanity, and if i was God, i will not hesitate to let him into heaven.

I knew in that moment that I believed in love at first sight. But only because I’d experienced a twinge of the opposite just then.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

Hearsay, even from the people I love, doesn't equate to gospel truth.

Flags are blossoming now where little else is blossoming and I am bent on fathoming what it means to love my country. The history of this earth and the bones within it? Minerals, traces, rumors I am made from, morsel, minuscule fibre, one woman like and unlike so many, fooled as to her destiny, the scope of her task? One citizen like and unlike so many, touched and untouched in passing… A patriot is not a weapon. A patriot us one who wrestles for the soul of her country as she wrestles for her own being, for the soul of his country…

I love you. He said it simply, quietly. He didn't say those words as she had imagined them said so many times by characters in novels. He didn't say them with desperation, with pleading, with futile rage or florid persuasion. He spoke without lasciviousness; he spoke only with the intention of being understood.

I On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping White Ophelia floats like a great lily; Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils... - In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort. For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river. For more than a thousand years her sweet madness Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze. The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath Her great veils rising and falling with the waters; The shivering willows weep on her shoulder, The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow. The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her; At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder, Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings; - A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars. II O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow! Yes child, you died, carried off by a river! - It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom. It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair, Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind; It was your heart listening to the song of Nature In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights; It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar, That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft; It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman Who one April morning sate mute at your knees! Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl! You melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled your words - And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye! III - And the poet says that by starlight You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

I think I'm starting to learn that you're just as unhinged as some of the Orean rumors have claimed." His devilish smirk only grows. "Oh, love, I'm worse.

Her voice was low and lovely, carrying to every corner of the hall. "I do." It was all she said, but I felt the shiver go through the men around me. Even as a child I felt it, and I marveled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room. Her skin, we suddenly remembered, was rumored to be gilded, her eyes dark and shining as the slick obsidian that we traded our olives for. At that moment she was worth al the prizes in the center of the hall, and more. She was worth our lives.

Am I a liar in your eyes?' He asked, passionately. 'Little sceptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None, and that you know. What love has she for me? None, as I have taken pains to prove; I caused a rumor to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not - I could not - marry Miss Ingram. You - you strange - you almost unearthly thing! I love as my own flesh. You - poor and obscure, and small and plain, as you are - I entreat to accept me as a husband.

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarett. She broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget. We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time. But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night. He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away her memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength he had to get up off his knees. We found him with his face down in the pillow. With a note that said: I love her til' I die. And when we buried him beneath the willow, The angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. The rumors flew, But nobody knew how much she blamed herself for years and years. She tried to hide the whiskey on her breath. She finally drank her pain away a little at a time, But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind until the night. She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away his memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength she had to get up off her knees. We found her with her face down in the pillow. Clinging to his picture for dear life. We laid her next to him beneath the willow, While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.

My best friend has warned me to stay away. Violet, a girl raised by the Terror, has warned me to stay away, but even after digesting her advice, knowing the rumors and experiencing what I have, I can't leave. The bandage on Razor's arm and the cuts and bruises along his side testify to how dangerous his life is, but with one long look into those beautiful eyes , I know that I'm a lost cause to logic. I've already fallen in love.

Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you just pull out the best in me?” She grinned. “Then maybe I should stick around. Just, you know, to save the department from your terrible moods?” He glanced at the picture of the failed Western blot in her hand. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to graduate anytime soon.” She half laughed, half gasped. “Oh my God. Did you just—?” “Objectively—” “This is the rudest, meanest thing—” She was laughing.

Her voice was low and lovely, carrying to every corner of the hall. “I do.” It was all she said, but I felt the shiver go through the men around me. Even as a child I felt it, and I marveled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room. Her skin, we suddenly remembered, was rumored to be gilded, her eyes dark and shining as the slick obsidian that we traded our olives for. At that moment she was worth all the prizes in the center of the hall, and more. She was worth our lives.

Oh, wow. Thank you.” She smiled. “Now I’m actually a bit sorry that I can’t have you on my dissertation committee. Perhaps rumors of your cruelty have been greatly exaggerated.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you just pull out the best in me?” She grinned. “Then maybe I should stick around. Just, you know, to save the department from your terrible moods?” He glanced at the picture of the failed Western blot in her hand. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to graduate anytime soon.” She half laughed, half gasped. “Oh my God. Did you just—?” “Objectively—” “This is the rudest, meanest thing—” She was laughing. Holding her stomach as she waved her finger at him. “—based on your blotting—” “—that anyone could ever say to a Ph.D. student. Ever.” “I think I can find meaner things. If I really put myself to it.” “We’re done.” She wished she weren’t smiling. Then maybe he’d take her seriously instead of just looking at her with that patient, amused expression. “Seriously. It was nice while it lasted.” She made to stand and leave indignantly, but he grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and gently tugged at it until she was sitting down again, next to him on the narrow couch—maybe even a little closer than before. She continued glaring, but he regarded her blandly, clearly unperturbed. “There’s nothing bad about taking more than five years to graduate,” he offered in a conciliatory tone. Olive huffed. “You just want me to stay around forever. Until you have the biggest, fattest, strongest Title IX case to ever exist.

Go where you will, but if I were you, I’d head north, and stick to the forest. Stay out of the mountains. Keep going until you hit Terrasen.” That had never been part of the plan. “But—but the king—Vernon—” “The King of Adarlan is dead,” Manon said. The world stopped. “Aelin Galathynius killed him and shattered his glass castle.” Elide covered her mouth with a hand, shaking her head. Aelin … Aelin … “She was aided,” Manon went on, “by Prince Aedion Ashryver.” Elide began sobbing. “And rumor has it Lord Ren Allsbrook is working in the North as a rebel.” Elide buried her face in her hands. Then there was a hard, iron-tipped hand on her shoulder. A tentative touch. “Hope,” Manon said quietly. Elide lowered her hands and found the witch smiling at her. Barely a tilt to her lips, but—a smile, soft and lovely. Elide wondered if Manon even knew she was doing it.

So I shall practice sorrow in my love, stand in thin sun from old windows and grieve: inevitability of the grave, monotony of death, partitioned lives.

Next question.” He swipes the screen of his phone, but he’s not looking at it; he’s staring at me. Trying to intimidate me. Trying to see who’ll blink first. “Did you leave DC because (A) you couldn’t find any hotties to make out with? Or (B) your East Coast boyfriend is an ankle buster and you’d heard about legendary West Coast D, so you had to find out for yourself if the rumors were true?” he says with a smirk. “Idiot,” Grace mumbles, shaking her head. I may not understand some of his phrasing, but I get the gist. I feel myself blushing. But I manage to recover quickly and get a jab in. “Why are you so interested in my love life?” “I’m not. Why are you evading the question? You do that a lot, by the way.” “Do what?” “Evade questions.” “What business is that of yours?” I say, secretly irritated that he’s figured me out... Porter scoffs. “Seeing how this is your first day on the job, and may very well be your last, considering the turnover rate for this position? And seeing how I have seniority over you? I’d say, yeah, it’s pretty much my business.” “Are you threatening me?” I ask. He clicks off his phone and raises a brow. “Huh?” “That sounded like a threat,” I say. “Whoa, you need to chill. That was not . . .” He can’t even say it. He’s flustered now, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Grace . . .” Grace holds up a hand. “Leave me out of this mess. I have no idea what I’m even witnessing here. Both of you have lost the plot.

I could understand how such stories of horror can spread, like a wild fire. Such was the nature of rumor. People seemed to love to be frightened especially when, in their heart of hearts, they knew that they were safe. How many truly believed in vampires, I pondered? How many truly believed that they were risking their life by sitting up in the gods to watch a stage performance?

When I remember that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely, dire summer, it seems that in those days I ate my lunches, smelled another's skin, noticed a shade of yellow, even simply sat, with greater lust and hopefulness--and that I lusted with greater faith, hoped with greater abandon. The people I loved were celebrities, surrounded by rumor and fanfare; the places I sat with them, movie lots and monuments. No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything.

You have no fucking idea, little bit of a thing, so old are you that you know everything? So worldly with the round eyes and the way you see the good in everything, even me. Forget everything you fucking think you know. The second I was inside you people would know, you’d be different, they’d treat you differently, tarred with my fucking ruined brush, all the rumors flying around, people who had once been your friends because they’d know I had hands all over you. I don’t fuck like a gentleman, little bit, I fuck like an animal, that stains a little girl like you. You want pretty-fucking-romance, to show off a man to your friends, to go to parties with him on your arm, so fucking meek and boring, that’s not me, will never be me. I’m not normal, the wiring is not right in my head, and I’m not for you, walk away before I’ve had my mouth on that pussy and drank down your honey, because if you don’t and I taste you, I feel how it is to shove my cock as deep and as hard as I can inside you, it’s all over, you get me? You hearing what I’m telling you? Game over, ‘cause I don’t play by anyone's rules but my own and my rules are nasty, my rules are fucking filthy.

I know humans like to think they’re special, but it’s galling that they’ve forgotten about us. There are rumors, but all are chalked up to fairy tales, myths, and fables. Still, people are curious, which I was counting on

People spoke to foreigners with an averted gaze, and everybody seemed to know somebody who had just vanished. The rumors of what had happened to them were fantastic and bizarre though, as it turned out, they were only an understatement of the real thing. Before going to see General Videla […], I went to […] check in with Los Madres: the black-draped mothers who paraded, every week, with pictures of their missing loved ones in the Plaza Mayo. (‘Todo mi familia!’ as one elderly lady kept telling me imploringly, as she flourished their photographs. ‘Todo mi familia!’) From these and from other relatives and friends I got a line of questioning to put to the general. I would be told by him, they forewarned me, that people ‘disappeared’ all the time, either because of traffic accidents and family quarrels or, in the dire civil-war circumstances of Argentina, because of the wish to drop out of a gang and the need to avoid one’s former associates. But this was a cover story. Most of those who disappeared were openly taken away in the unmarked Ford Falcon cars of the Buenos Aires military police. I should inquire of the general what precisely had happened to Claudia Inez Grumberg, a paraplegic who was unable to move on her own but who had last been seen in the hands of his ever-vigilant armed forces [….] I possess a picture of the encounter that still makes me want to spew: there stands the killer and torturer and rape-profiteer, as if to illustrate some seminar on the banality of evil. Bony-thin and mediocre in appearance, with a scrubby moustache, he looks for all the world like a cretin impersonating a toothbrush. I am gripping his hand in a much too unctuous manner and smiling as if genuinely delighted at the introduction. Aching to expunge this humiliation, I waited while he went almost pedantically through the predicted script, waving away the rumored but doubtless regrettable dematerializations that were said to be afflicting his fellow Argentines. And then I asked him about Senorita Grumberg. He replied that if what I had said was true, then I should remember that ‘terrorism is not just killing with a bomb, but activating ideas. Maybe that’s why she’s detained.’ I expressed astonishment at this reply and, evidently thinking that I hadn’t understood him the first time, Videla enlarged on the theme. ‘We consider it a great crime to work against the Western and Christian style of life: it is not just the bomber but the ideologist who is the danger.’ Behind him, I could see one or two of his brighter staff officers looking at me with stark hostility as they realized that the general—El Presidente—had made a mistake by speaking so candidly. […] In response to a follow-up question, Videla crassly denied—‘rotondamente’: ‘roundly’ denied—holding Jacobo Timerman ‘as either a journalist or a Jew.’ While we were having this surreal exchange, here is what Timerman was being told by his taunting tormentors: Argentina has three main enemies: Karl Marx, because he tried to destroy the Christian concept of society; Sigmund Freud, because he tried to destroy the Christian concept of the family; and Albert Einstein, because he tried to destroy the Christian concept of time and space. […] We later discovered what happened to the majority of those who had been held and tortured in the secret prisons of the regime. According to a Navy captain named Adolfo Scilingo, who published a book of confessions, these broken victims were often destroyed as ‘evidence’ by being flown out way over the wastes of the South Atlantic and flung from airplanes into the freezing water below. Imagine the fun element when there’s the surprise bonus of a Jewish female prisoner in a wheelchair to be disposed of… we slide open the door and get ready to roll her and then it’s one, two, three… go!

Mi accorgevo del corpo, del suo interno, accanto a lei: del battito del sangue a fior di polso, del rumore dell'aria nel naso, del traffico della macchina cuorepolmoni. Accanto al suo corpo esploravo il mio, calato nell'interno, sbatacchiato come il secchio nel pozzo.

On the day of the agni pariksha, light transfixed Amar’s face. “I have every faith in you, my love,” he said, trailing fingers along my jaw. “This will put an end to every rumor. This will keep you safe from them. I know our days have been cold, but after this, we will be as we once were.

I heard a rumor that you make a killer chicken potpie.” “Is getting your ass kicked making you hungry?” He lifted his middle finger, but smiled to lessen the insult. “I love chicken potpie.” “You’re goofy.” His smile turned into a stern line, but his eyes were still laughing. “I’m scary as fuck.” “Okay. You’re scary.

I love you.” But the words didn’t come from me. They came from Dylan. And when they came, they knocked all thought and sense out of me. He continued. “I love you, Jordyn Jones. And I want to be with you. Forever. But if that’s not what you want, and all I get is this summer, that’s okay. Because dating you for one summer still makes me the luckiest man alive.

I see you with that shell Held to your sensitive abstracted ear, Hunting the ocean’s rumor till you hear it well, Until you can set down the sound you hear:— Fixed to a shell like that you made immortal, This heart listens, this fragile auricle Holds rumor like your ocean’s, is a portal That sometimes opens to contain the miracle. If there are miracles we can record They happen in the places that you curse. Blessèd the pure in heart and the enduring word Sings of that love that spins the universe. My honor (and I cherish it for it is hardly won) Is to be pure in this: is to believe That to write down these perishable songs for one, For one alone, and out of love, is not to grieve But to build on the quicksand of despair A house where every man may take his ease, May come to shelter from the outer air, A little house where he may find his peace.

D’istinto le venne da abbracciare il ragazzo ma lui si ritrasse: «Mi attacchi il raffreddore!». Coco non rise più. Il rifiuto la offese. Ma David le afferrò le mani e infine la strinse a sé in un abbraccio caloroso. Sensuale. Le sussurrò nell’orecchio: «Sei speciale. Attaccami pure il raffreddore!». Coco chiuse gli occhi. Sentì suonare tutti i violini del mondo. L’unico rumore pesante e profondo fu quello del battito del cuore. David aveva un odore buono. Fresco.

There’s so much that I know I should tell him. I should tell him that I’m not afraid of words. Most of them, anyway. I’m not afraid of rumors or even criticism. When you write trashy romance, criticism is all but guaranteed. It’s betrayal that I fear. The kind that can utterly break your heart, your spirit, your ability to trust, your ability to love... And perhaps worst of all, your ability to love yourself. Because when that betrayal happens, you feel small and stupid and worthless. You’re not a person, you’re a plaything; one of little value.

For many, romantic love is the closest experience of pure grace. Someone at last feels that I—I!—am the most desirable, attractive, companionable creature on the planet. Someone lies awake at night thinking of me. Someone forgives me before I ask, thinks of me when she gets dressed, orders her life around mine. Someone loves me just the way I am. For this reason, I think, modern writers like John Updike and Walker Percy, who have strong Christian sensibilities, may choose a sexual affair as a symbol of grace in their novels. They are speaking the language our culture understands: grace as a rumor, not a doctrine.

Hypothetically, then, you may be picking up in someone a certain very strange type of sadness that appears as a kind of disassociation from itself, maybe, Love-o.’ ‘I don’t know disassociation.’ ‘Well, love, but you know the idiom “not yourself” — “He’s not himself today,” for example,’ crooking and uncrooking fingers to form quotes on either side of what she says, which Mario adores. ‘There are, apparently, persons who are deeply afraid of their own emotions, particularly the painful ones. Grief, regret, sadness. Sadness especially, perhaps. Dolores describes these persons as afraid of obliteration, emotional engulfment. As if something truly and thoroughly felt would have no end or bottom. Would become infinite and engulf them.’ ‘Engulf means obliterate.’ ‘I am saying that such persons usually have a very fragile sense of themselves as persons. As existing at all. This interpretation is “existential,” Mario, which means vague and slightly flaky. But I think it may hold true in certain cases. My own father told stories of his own father, whose potato farm had been in St. Pamphile and very much larger than my father’s. My grandfather had had a marvelous harvest one season, and he wanted to invest money. This was in the early 1920s, when there was a great deal of money to be made on upstart companies and new American products. He apparently narrowed the field to two choices — Delaware-brand Punch, or an obscure sweet fizzy coffee substitute that sold out of pharmacy soda fountains and was rumored to contain smidgeons of cocaine, which was the subject of much controversy in those days. My father’s father chose Delaware Punch, which apparently tasted like rancid cranberry juice, and the manufacturer of which folded. And then his next two potato harvests were decimated by blight, resulting in the forced sale of his farm. Coca-Cola is now Coca-Cola. My father said his father showed very little emotion or anger or sadness about this, though. That he somehow couldn’t. My father said his father was frozen, and could feel emotion only when he was drunk. He would apparently get drunk four times a year, weep about his life, throw my father through the living room window, and disappear for several days, roaming the countryside of L’Islet Province, drunk and enraged.’ She’s not been looking at Mario this whole time, though Mario’s been looking at her. She smiled. ‘My father, of course, could himself tell this story only when he was drunk. He never threw anyone through any windows. He simply sat in his chair, drinking ale and reading the newspaper, for hours, until he fell out of the chair. And then one day he fell out of the chair and didn’t get up again, and that was how your maternal grandfather passed away. I’d never have gotten to go to University had he not died when I was a girl. He believed education was a waste for girls. It was a function of his era; it wasn’t his fault. His inheritance to Charles and me paid for university.’ She’s been smiling pleasantly this whole time, emptying the butt from the ashtray into the wastebasket, wiping the bowl’s inside with a Kleenex, straightening straight piles of folders on her desk.

There's technically no solution for the problem of breaking up, no matter what side of the heart break you end up on. There's two rumors about breaking up I feel might be helpful to address here. One is that break-ups should be clean, the other is that you should only break-up when you’re not in love. The truth is break-ups are usually messy, the way people are messy, the way life is often messy. It’s okay for a break-up to feel like a disaster. It doesn’t often feel okay, but I assure you it is okay. It’s also true that you can break-up with someone you still love, because those two things are not distinct territories: love and not loving anymore

Th-thurlow...?" His face,so very like her own, lit with pleasure. "Rycca,dear sister! I rejoice to find you well!" They hugged fiercely while Dragon looked on with as much contentment as he could have mustered had he personally arranged the reunion of the twins. "I don't understand," Rycca said when she could speak again.Her throat was very tight and tears gleamed in her eyes but she could not stop smiling. "Why are you here?" "I heard a wild rumor in Normandy, about you fleeing from the marriage arranged for you by the king himself," he said,with a chiding shake of his head. "Really,Rycca,what were you thinking? Dragon here an exemplary fellow.How could you have not wanted to marry him?" Over her brother's shoulder,Rycca sent the fine fellow in question a look that would have turned a lesser mann to ash. Dragon merely raised his eyebrows, the very image of wounded innocence. "It was a little more complicated than he may have explained to you." "Nonsense," Thurlow said with all the certainty of a very young man whose heart is nonetheless in the right place. "I love you dearly, sister,but we both know you can be a tad impulsive. Fortunately,I am assured Dragon will take excellent care of you." Rycca laughed then and reached out a hand to her husband,who took it with a grin.She she drew him to her,she said softly, "As I will care for him, brother.

The Jews love their mythic connections. The Son of God, a Son of David, the original Messiah king of Israel.” Eleazer knew all too well about the promised Son of David.   “Behold, the days are coming, declares Yahweh, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.   “A son of Zeus!” said an amused Artabanus. “You jest,” said Antipas, “But you are more in on the joke than you realize.” Antipas wanted to ingratiate himself with the foreign ruler. He kept the amusement going like a master of chorus in a Greek play. “Rumors have been spreading that this Nazarene was born of a virgin!

...Mother had always advised against sharing domestic troubles outside the family. They would only return as unwelcome rumor. But I trusted Eleanor, so when we stopped to admire the waves crashing and the cry of the seagulls, I spoke of the changes in my marriage, hoping for some insight to my dilemma. 'My dear,' Eleanor said, 'you can't expect a marriage to remain as it is in the beginning. If your souls continued to burn for each other in that way, you would be cinders.' 'Then what is the point? Why do we marry for life, only to see love fade away?' 'Ah, but true love doesn't fade away. It changes, deepens. It seems to disappear at times, only to come back in a different way. Think of early love like a wave in the ocean, building and building until it tumbles from its own height. Then the calm, the drawing back, only to swell and crash again. When you get past the breakers, you don't feel the crash, but the water is still lifting and falling in life's rhythm.' ...I adjusted my hat to better shield my eyes from the blinding sun. 'It seems I pushed through the breakers only to find my husband wasn't with me on the other side.' 'Then you must swim until you find him.' Eleanor kicked seaweed from the path of sandpipers, skittering from approaching foam. 'Don't be tempted back into the breakers, seeking another for the journey. You may find the ocean spits you back out.

Antique Foundation Here I built the ruin in My voice on either side of me In the temple the ocean could Not be a crowd I mined The shore with fog the sun dries These bricks I built the vision in The cinder block that is the city Wall this grave Tone I speak with a picture Of myself in my wallet • Don’t be fooled by grass and these words Grass whispers Because they are real they are Ruinous Here, the gossip is in the dust Not the sea cloud enters the open Child’s window dimming the silver Flute’s sheen Where is he Who hears inside the brick those notes? There is a rumor in the city we’ll exist If he plays his song no one knows • Follow that shadow don’t tell me it’s mine Here there is no being alone Here are my hands which tore the leaves so Quietly in the temple the god Emerging from marble points at the chisel At the base of his stone Did I tell you Where I’m going? To the old man Who sings the margin Where on wave-tip swords turn edge over edge Wound us and the shore with foam • My face on either side of my face I tore My picture in half to show the gate You must climb inside your breath to leave As fog the wind will bear you— If you’re lovely—away In the spare clouds The children’s chorus Do you hear?— Where were you, and where are you going? Here I built the ruin in the stone-crushed Sage leaves my hands scented as long ago When I liked to press the desert against my head to think

I still look at the things I love everyday, and I think to myself: How special am I really? Then I think of those around me. I may be an icon on a silly, little screen, but I'm breathing. Why? Because of those around me. The symphony I sing is my soul. They all think I was ordinary. I was bullied as a kid, abused as a teenager, hated as a young adult. But now I'm ready. I'm ready for those rumors. I'm ready for those bloody noses. I'm ready for the names. Because of those around me, my match has been lit. It hasn't burned out yet. My sparks around the cackling electricity I hold has calmed down, and my fire dances around me. I am Howler the Icewing, but I am not ordinary. I am me, and that's all I'll ever be.

February 22, 2005 Right now the rumor on leaving is the latest the 22nd, but I am still supposed to leave on the first. Hopefully. I want to get home to see my baby and my son. I miss both of y’all something awful. Time is going a little faster now because of working again. I had a long enough break and it’s about time I got back out. I’m still making a name for myself by adding to my numbers. I know I never say it, but it does feel good to have all the people talking about me in a good way. Anyway, I love you and miss you. You mean the world to me. Please take care of yourself and I will call you soon. Smoooooooooch!!!!! I can’t wait to give you a real one. Carefully go over every inch of your body. I am soooo horny! I love you, baby! -XOXOXOXOXXXXX

Deep in our hearts, we feel sick about the hostility, dishonor, and disdain in our world. A kind of collective fatigue manifests itself in our disgust for our culture. We are exhausted by the devaluing of others but feel powerless to stop. I feel this at times after I am done looking at social media. There is so much condescension and so much anger. I feel both grieved and overwhelmed. I want to lash out, but I don’t exactly know how. We don’t know how to change the channel of contempt. Unity feels like a pipe dream, and healing, out of reach. Our hearts are grieved by the failure of the church as well. The way we devalue people for their theology or lack of it, different practices and traditions, and struggles with sin. Our vision of God has been lowered, his power is scarce, and his love is a rumor that’s been chased away. I believe there is a cure for the cancer of contempt: honor.

The next day Phipps wrote about Göring’s open house in his diary. “The whole proceedings were so strange as at times to convey a feeling of unreality,” he wrote, but the episode had provided him a valuable if unsettling insight into the nature of Nazi rule. “The chief impression was that of the most pathetic naïveté of General Göring, who showed us his toys like a big, fat, spoilt child: his primeval woods, his bison and birds, his shooting-box and lake and bathing beach, his blond ‘private secretary,’ his wife’s mausoleum and swans and sarsen stones.… And then I remembered there were other toys, less innocent though winged, and these might some day be launched on their murderous mission in the same childlike spirit and with the same childlike glee.” CHAPTER 43 A Pygmy Speaks Wherever Martha and her father now went they heard rumors and speculation that the collapse of Hitler’s regime might be imminent. With

On the day of the agni pariksha, light transfixed Amar’s face. “I have every faith in you, my love,” he said, trailing fingers along my jaw. “This will put an end to every rumor. This will keep you safe from them. I know our days have been cold, but after this, we will be as we once were.” Inside, my heart snarled, but I kept my face blank. “I will not disappoint.” All the members of the Otherworld assembled for my trial. I wore white, the dress of mourning. In the Night Bazaar, a dim glow lit up the faces of the attendees, clinging to well-oiled horns and scaled skin. Leonine rakshasa waited patiently, weapons quivering in their grip. If I failed, they were free to depose me. If I succeeded, they would end their bloodshed in the human realms. Sacred flames lapped up from the ground. Ribbons of fire snaked out like tongues and grasping hands. I looked to Amar. His face was stern. Hopeful. For what outcome, I thought I knew. But I was wrong.

You have something to say to me, Cassidy, say it. Or shut the fuck up.” “All right,” Jules said. “I will.” He took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Okay, see, I, well, I love you. Very, very much, and . . .” Where to go from here . . .? Except, his plain-spoken words earned him not just a glance but Max’s sudden full and complete attention. Which was a little alarming. But it was the genuine concern in Max’s eyes that truly caught Jules off-guard. Max actually thought . . . Jules laughed his surprise. “Oh! No, not like that. I meant it, you know, in a totally platonic, non-gay way.” Jules saw comprehension and relief on Max’s face. The man was tired if he was letting such basic emotions show. “Sorry.” Max even smiled. “I just . . .” He let out a burst of air. “I mean, talk about making things even more complicated . . .” It was amazing. Max hadn’t recoiled in horror at the idea. His concern had been for Jules, about potentially hurting his tender feelings. And even now, he wasn’t trying to turn it all into a bad joke. And he claimed they weren’t friends. Jules felt his throat tighten. “You can’t know,” he told his friend quietly, “how much I appreciate your acceptance and respect.” “My father was born in India,” Max told him, “in 1930. His mother was white—American. His father was not just Indian, but lower caste. The intolerance he experienced both there and later, even in America, made him a . . . very bitter, very hard, very, very unhappy man.” He glanced at Jules again. “I know personality plays into it, and maybe you’re just stronger than he was, but . . . People get knocked down all the time. They can either stay there, wallow in it, or . . . Do what you’ve done—what you do. So yeah. I respect you more than you know.” Holy shit. Weeping was probably a bad idea, so Jules grabbed onto the alternative. He made a joke. “I wasn’t aware that you even had a father. I mean, rumors going around the office have you arriving via flying saucer—” “I would prefer not to listen to aimless chatter all night long,” Max interrupted him. “So if you’ve made your point . . .?” Ouch. “Okay,” Jules said. “I’m so not going to wallow in that. Because I do have a point. See, I said what I said because I thought I’d take the talk-to-an-eight-year-old approach with you. You know, tell you how much I love you and how great you are in part one of the speech—” “Speech.” Max echoed. “Because part two is heavily loaded with the silent-but-implied ‘you are such a freaking idiot.’” “Ah, Christ,” Max muttered. “So, I love you,” Jules said again, “in a totally buddy-movie way, and I just want to say that I also really love working for you, and I hope to God you’ll come back so I can work for you again. See, I love the fact that you’re my leader not because you were appointed by some suit, but because you earned very square inch of that gorgeous corner office. I love you because you’re not just smart, you’re open-minded—you’re willing to talk to people who have a different point of view, and when they speak, you’re willing to listen. Like right now, for instance. You’re listening, right?” “No.” “Liar.” Jules kept going. “You know, the fact that so many people would sell their grandmother to become a part of your team is not an accident. Sir, you’re beyond special—and your little speech to me before just clinched it. You scare us to death because we’re afraid we won’t be able to live up to your high standards. But your back is strong, you always somehow manage to carry us with you even when we falter. “Some people don’t see that; they don’t really get you—all they know is they would charge into hell without hesitation if you gave the order to go. But see, what I know is that you’d be right there, out in front—they’d have to run to keep up with you. You never flinch. You never hesitate. You never rest.

Both of those alternate universes were wonderful. Different from each other but equally wonderful. In different ways (in the poor Mexican one I enjoyed being close to the streetnote street, not “earth” or “soil”—and being in a familiar place. In the wealthy cosmopolitan one I enjoyed variety and expensive tastes), each was equally complete, an entire world. It’s as if God informed me:  “You turn north, I’ll spin for you an entire world and a wonderful one which you’ll love.”“You turn south, I’ll plant you in a little town and it’ll be a whole universe, that little town, with dreams about other towns in the north, rumors of wealth you will treasure as rumors.”“You decided to live dead-center, and I will show you that the Tao, which is what you have found in Fullerton, because there you do speak in public, you do receive royal guests, but near you is the poor barrio, and you’re stuck in Fullerton forever as if you were poor—you decide on the Tao, the Middle Path, and I will show you that each path is the Middle Path, that there is no universe which I can’t make complete. You can’t be where I am not. And if I am there, which I always am, it is a total world, good as any other.

Silver Springs" You could be my silver springs Blue-green colors flashin' I would be your only dream Your shining autumn, ocean crashing And did you say she was pretty? And did you say that she loves you? Baby, I don't wanna know I'll begin not to love you Turn around, see me runnin' I said I loved you years ago Tell myself you never loved me, no And did you say she was pretty? And did you say that she loves you? Baby, I don't wanna know Oh, no And can you tell me was it worth it? Really, I don't wanna know Time cast its spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me Time cast its spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you (Was I just a fool?) You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you (Was I just a fool?) I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you (Give me just a chance) You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you Fleetwood Mac, Rumors (2004 Remaster)

Too often in the past, I made a public spectacle of myself on the worst possible occasions, in front of the worst possible people. I was an absolute swine. Brawling at parties. Pissing in fountains and vomiting in potted plants. I've slept with other men's wives, I've ruined marriages. It takes years of dedicated effort to discredit one's own name as thoroughly as I did, but by God, I set the bar. There will always be rumors and ugly gossip, and I can't contradict most of it because I was always too drunk to know whether it happened or not. Someday your sons will hear some of it, and any affection they feel for me will turn to ashes. I won't let my shame become their shame." Phoebe knew if she tried to argue with him point by point, it would only lead to frustration on her part and wallowing on his. She certainly couldn't deny that upper-class society was monstrously judgmental. Some people would perch ostentatiously on their moral pedestals, loudly accusing West while ignoring their own sins. Some people might overlook his blemished reputation if there was any advantage to them in doing so. None of that could be changed. But she would teach Justin and Stephen not to be influenced by hypocritical braying. Kindness and humanity- the values her mother had imparted- would guide them. "Trust us," she said quietly. "Trust me and my sons to love you.

In the end, it was the little details of the wedding that Daphne remembered. There were tears in her mother's eyes (and then eventually on her face), and Anthony's voice had been oddly hoarse when he stepped forward to give her away. Hyacinth had strewn her rose petals too quickly, and there were none left by the time she reached the altar. Gregory sneezed three times before they even got to their vows. And she remembered the look of concentration on Simon's face as he repeated his vows. Each syllable was uttered slowly and carefully. His eyes burned with intent, and his voice was low but true. To Daphne, it sounded as if nothing in the world could possibly be as important as the words he spoke as they stood before the archbishop. Her heart found comfort in this; no man who spoke his vows with such intensity could possibly view marriage as a mere convenience. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. A shiver raced down Daphne's spine, causing her to sway. In just a moment, she would belong to this man forever. Simon's head turned slightly, his eyes darting to her face. Are you all right? his eyes asked. She nodded, a tiny little jog of her chin that only he could see. Something blazed in his eyes—could it be relief? I now pronounce you— Gregory sneezed for a fourth time, then a fifth and sixth, completely obliterating the archbishop's “man and wife.” Daphne felt a horrifying bubble of mirth pushing up her throat. She pressed her lips together, determined to maintain an appropriately serious facade. Marriage, after all, was a solemn institution, and not one to be treating as a joke. She shot a glance at Simon, only to find that he was looking at her with a queer expression. His pale eyes were focused on her mouth, and the corners of his lips began to twitch. Daphne felt that bubble of mirth rising ever higher. You may kiss the bride. Simon grabbed her with almost desperate arms, his mouth crashing down on hers with a force that drew a collective gasp from the small assemblage of guests. And then both sets of lips—bride and groom—burst into laughter, even as they remained entwined. Violet Bridgerton later said it was the oddest kiss she'd ever been privileged to view. Gregory Bridgerton—when he finished sneezing—said it was disgusting. The archbishop, who was getting on in years, looked perplexed. But Hyacinth Bridgerton, who at ten should have known the least about kisses of anyone, just blinked thoughtfully, and said, “I think it's nice. If they're laughing now, they'll probably be laughing forever.” She turned to her mother. “Isn't that a good thing?” Violet took her youngest daughter's hand and squeezed it. “Laughter is always a good thing, Hyacinth. And thank you for reminding us of that.” And so it was that the rumor was started that the new Duke and Duchess of Hastings were the most blissfully happy and devoted couple to be married in decades. After all, who could remember another wedding with so much laughter?

I am the Dharma Raja for a reason. I would not have my own impartiality questioned by favoring you. Surely, you knew this.” “What would you have done if I failed?” “You couldn’t fail,” said Amar. “That’s why I did not worry. You were meant to be the queen of these lands. We were meant to rule together. For all of eternity.” “I would rather die than rule by the side of a coward.” Shadows curled away from Amar’s body. “Coward?” he hissed. “Cowardice is running from the difficult choices made by the ones that love you most. If I have been a coward, so have you, jaani. But we may start anew. Let us not speak of this time any longer.” He tried, once more, to tilt my face into a kiss, but I moved away. “I saw you spread the rumors yourself in the Otherworld. I watched you take solace in another’s arms. And if surviving the agni pariksha means spending eternity with you, then I would rather live life as a mortal.” The room became damp and sticky with darkness. “What lies you hurl at me,” he murmured. “I don’t trust you.” He stepped back, wounded. “Has your judgment become so compromised? If you truly do not believe the truth in my words, then you have no place here.” We stared at one another, fury swelling between us. The silence expanded, solidifying our words like manacles. “Once, I thought you loved me,” I said in a broken voice. “I refuse to live in your shadow for the rest of eternity.” His eyes widened, obsidian eyes searching and disbelieving. “Then leave!” he said, gesturing to the door angrily.

I’m fine, Sierra. Really.” “No, you’re not fine. Brit, I’m your best friend. I’ll be here before and after your boyfriends. So spill your guts. I’m all ears.” “I loved him.” “No shit, Sherlock. Tell me something I don’t know.” “He used me. He had sex with me to win a bet. And I still love him. Sierra, I am pathetic.” “You had sex and didn’t tell me? I mean, I thought it was a rumor. You know, of the untrue kind.” I lean my head in my hands in frustration. “I’m just kidding. I don’t even want to know. Okay, I do, but only if you want to tell me,” Sierra says. “Forget about that now. I saw the way Alex always looked at you, Brit. That’s why I laid off you for liking him. There was no way he was acting. I don’t know who told you about a supposed bet--” I look up. “He did. And his friends confirmed it. Why can’t I let him go?” Sierra shakes her head, as if erasing the words I’ve said. “First things first.” She grabs my chin and forces me to look at her. “Alex had feelings for you, whether he admitted it to you or not, whether there was a bet or not. You know that, Brit, or you wouldn’t be clutching those hand warmers like that. Second of all, Alex is out of your life and you owe it to yourself, to his goofy friend Paco, and to me to keep plugging along even if it’s not easy.” “I can’t help but think he pushed me away on purpose. If I could only talk to him, I can get answers.” “Maybe he doesn’t have the answers. That’s why he left. If he wants to give up on life, to ignore what’s right in front of him, so be it. But you show him that you’re stronger than that.” Sierra is right. For the first time I feel I can make it through the rest of senior year. Alex took a piece of my heart that night we made love, and he’ll forever hold it. But that doesn’t mean my life has to be on hold indefinitely. I can’t run after ghosts. I’m stronger now. At least, I hope I am.

I wanted to be alone.” “I see.” Except she didn’t, exactly. When had this child become a mystery to her own mother? “Why?” Sophie glanced at herself in the mirror, and Esther could only hope her daughter saw the truth: a lovely, poised woman—intelligent, caring, well dowered, and deserving of more than a stolen interlude with a convenient stranger and an inconvenient baby—Sophie’s brothers’ assurances notwithstanding. “I am lonely, that’s why.” Sophie’s posture relaxed with this pronouncement, but Esther’s consternation only increased. “How can you be lonely when you’re surrounded by loving family, for pity’s sake? Your father and I, your sisters, your brothers, even Uncle Tony and your cousins—we’re your family, Sophia.” She nodded, a sad smile playing around her lips that to Esther’s eyes made her daughter look positively beautiful. “You’re the family I was born with, and I love you too, but I’m still lonely, Your Grace. I’ve wished and wished for my own family, for children of my own, for a husband, not just a marital partner…” “You had many offers.” Esther spoke gently, because in Sophie’s words, in her calm, in her use of the present tense—“I am lonely”—there was an insight to be had. “Those offers weren’t from the right man.” “Was Baron Sindal the right man?” It was a chance arrow, but a woman who had raised ten children owned a store of maternal instinct. Sophie’s chin dropped, and she sighed. “I thought he was the right man, but it wasn’t the right offer, or perhaps it was, but I couldn’t hear it as such. And then there was the baby… It wouldn’t be the right marriage.” Esther took her courage in both hands and advanced on her daughter—her sensible daughter—and slipped an arm around Sophie’s waist. “Tell me about this baby. I’ve heard all manner of rumors about him, but you’ve said not one word.” She meant to walk Sophie over to the vanity, so she might drape Oma’s pearls around Sophie’s neck, but Sophie closed her eyes and stiffened. “He’s a good baby. He’s a wonderful baby, and I sent him away. Oh, Mama, I sent my baby away…” And then, for the first time in years, sensible Lady Sophia Windham cried on her mother’s shoulder as if she herself were once again a little, inconsolable baby. ***

In chem, Peter sits a row in front of me. I write him a note. Why would you tell Josh that we’re-- I hesitate and then finish with a thing? I kick the back of his chair, and he turns around and I hand him the note. He slouches in his seat to read it; then I watch as he scribbles something. He tips back in his chair and drops the note on my desk without looking at me. A thing? Haha. I press down so hard my pencil tip chips off. Please answer the question. We’ll talk later. I let out a frustrated sigh and Matt, my lab partner, gives me a funny look. After class Peter is swept away with all his friends; they leave in a big group. I’m packing up my backpack when he returns, alone. He hops up on the table. “So let’s talk,” he says, super casual. I clear my throat and try to gather my bearings. “Why did you tell Josh we were--” I almost say “a thing” again, but then change it to “together?” “I don’t get what you’re so upset about. I did you a favor. I could have just as easily blown up your spot.” I pause. He’s right. He could have. “So why didn’t you?” “You’ve sure got a funny way of saying thank you. You’re welcome, by the way.” Automatically I say, “Thank you.” Wait. Why am I thanking him? “I appreciate you letting me kiss you, but--” “You’re welcome,” he says again. Ugh! He’s so insufferable. Just for that I’m going to toss a little dig his way. “That was…really generous of you. To let me do that. But I’ve already explained to Josh that it’s not going to work out with us because Genevieve has you whipped, so it’s all good. You can stop pretending now.” Peter glares at me. “I’m not whipped.” “But aren’t you, though? I mean, you guys have been together since the seventh grade. You’re basically her property.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter scoffs. “There was a rumor last year that she made you get a tattoo of her initials on your butt for her birthday.” I pause. “So did you?” I reach around him and fake try to lift up the back of his shirt. He yelps and jumps away from me, and I collapse in a fit of giggles. “So you do have a tattoo!” “I don’t have a tattoo!” he yells. “And we’re not even together anymore, so can you stop with this shit? We broke up. We’re over. I’m done with her.” “Wait, didn’t she break up with you?” I ask. Peter shoots me a dirty look. “It was mutual.

she had dark chestnut hair, a heart-shaped face, large wide eyes, full lips…and appeared about as miserable as he’d ever seen a young woman, a state he suspected had something to do with the older woman at her side. His gaze slid over the matron. Well-rounded with dark hair, she was pretty despite the bloom of youth being gone—or she would be if she weren’t wearing a pursed, dissatisfied expression as she surveyed the activity in the ballroom. Adrian glanced back to the girl. “First season?” he queried, his curiosity piqued. “Yes.” Reg looked amused. “Why is no one dancing with her?” A beauty such as this should have had a full card. “No one dares ask her—and you will not either, if you value your feet.” Adrian’s eyebrows rose, his gaze turning reluctantly from the young woman to the man at his side. “She is blind as a bat and dangerous to boot,” Reg announced, nodding when Adrian looked disbelieving. “Truly, she cannot dance a step without stomping on your toes and falling about. She cannot even walk without bumping into things.” He paused, cocking one eyebrow in response to Adrian’s expression. “I know you do not believe it. I did not either…much to my own folly.” Reginald turned to glare at the girl and continued: “I was warned, but ignored it and took her in to dinner….” He glanced back at Adrian. “I was wearing dark brown trousers that night, unfortunately. She mistook my lap for a table, and set her tea on me. Or rather, she tried to. It overset and…” Reg paused, shifting uncomfortably at the memory. “Damn me if she did not burn my piffle.” Adrian stared at his cousin and then burst into laughter. Reginald looked startled, then smiled wryly. “Yes, laugh. But if I never sire another child—legitimate or not—I shall blame it solely on Lady Clarissa Crambray.” Shaking his head, Adrian laughed even harder, and it felt so good. It had been many years since he’d found anything the least bit funny. But the image of the delicate little flower along the wall mistaking Reg’s lap for a table and oversetting a cup of tea on him was priceless. “What did you do?” he got out at last. Reg shook his head and raised his hands helplessly. “What could I do? I pretended it had not happened, stayed where I was, and tried not to cry with the pain. ‘A gentleman never deigns to notice, or draw attention in any way to, a lady’s public faux pas,’” he quoted dryly, then glanced back at the girl with a sigh. “Truth to tell, I do not think she even realized what she’d done. Rumor has it she can see fine with spectacles, but she is too vain to wear them.” Still smiling, Adrian followed Reg’s gaze to the girl. Carefully taking in her wretched expression, he shook his head. “No. Not vain,” he announced, watching as the older woman beside Lady Clarissa murmured something, stood, and moved away. “Well,” Reg began, but paused when, ignoring him, Adrian moved toward the girl. Shaking his head, he muttered, “I warned you.” -Adrian & Reg

First came the flower girls, pretty little lasses in summery frocks, skipping down the aisle, tossing handfuls of petals and, in one case, the basket when it was empty. Next came the bridesmaids, Luna, strutting in her gown and heels, a challenging dare in her eyes that begged someone to make a remark about the girly getup she was forced to wear. Next came Reba and Zena, giggling and prancing, loving the attention. This time, Leo wasn’t thrown by Teena’s appearance, nor was he fooled. How could he have mistaken her for his Vex? While similar outwardly, Meena’s twin lacked the same confident grin, and the way she moved, with a delicate grace, did not resemble his bold woman at all. How unlike they seemed. Until Teena tripped, flailed her arms, and took out part of a row before she could recover! Yup, they were sisters all right. With a heavy sigh, and pink cheeks, Teena managed to walk the rest of the red carpet, high heels in hand— one of which seemed short a heel. With all the wedding party more or less safely arrived, there was only one person of import left. However, she didn’t walk alone. Despite his qualms, which Leo heard over the keg they’d shared the previous night, Peter appeared ready to give his daughter away. Ready, though, didn’t mean he looked happy about it. The seams of the suit his soon-to-be father-in-law wore strained, the rented tux not the best fit, but Leo doubted that was why he looked less than pleased. Leo figured there were two reasons for Peter’s grumpy countenance. The first was the fact that he had to give his little girl away. The second probably had to do with the snickers and the repetition of a certain rumor, “I hear he lost an arm-wrestling bet and had to wear a tie.” For those curious, Leo had won that wager, and thus did his new father-in-law wear the, “gods-damned-noose” around his neck. However, who cared about that sore loser when upon his arm rested a vision of beauty. Meena’s long hair tumbled in golden waves over her shoulders, the ends curled into fat ringlets that tickled her cleavage. At her temples, ivory combs swept the sides up and away, revealing the creamy line of her neck. The strapless gown made her appear as a goddess. The bust, tight and low cut, displayed her fantastic breasts so well that Leo found himself growling. He didn’t like the appreciative eyes in the crowd. Yet, at the same time, he felt a certain pride. His bride was beautiful, and it was only right she be admired. From her impressive breasts, the gown cinched in before flaring out. The filmy white fabric of the skirt billowed as she walked. He noted she wore flats. Reba’s suggestion so she wouldn’t get a heel stuck. Her gown didn’t quite touch the ground. Zena’s idea to ensure she wouldn’t trip on the hem. They’d taken all kinds of precautions to ensure her the smoothest chance of success. She might lack the feline grace of other ladies. She might have stumbled a time or two and been kept upright only by the smooth actions of her father, but dammit, in his eyes, she was the daintiest, most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And she is mine.

A long time ago, I collected the flower petals stained with my first blood; I thought there was something significant about that, there was importance in all the little moments of experience, because when you live forever, the first times matter. The first time you bleed, first time you cry — I don’t remember that — first time you see your wings, because new things defile you, purity chips away. your purity. nestled flowers in your belly, waiting to be picked. do you want innocence back? small and young smiles that make your eyes squint and cheeks flare the feeling of your face dripping down onto the grass, the painted walls you tore down, the roads you chipped away, they’ll eat away at you, the lingering feelings of a warm hand on your waist, the taps of your feet as you dance, the beats of your timbrel.’ ‘and now you are like Gods, sparkling brilliant with jewelry that worships you, and you’re splitting in order to create.’ ‘The tosses of your wet hair, the rushes of chariots speeding past, the holy, holy, holy lord god of hosts, the sweetness of a strawberry, knocks against the window by your head, the little tunes of your pipes, the cuts sliced into your fingers by uptight cacti fruits, the brisk scent of a sea crashing into the rocks, the sweat of wrestling, onions, cumin, parsley in a metal jug, mud clinging to your skin, a friendly mouth on your cheeks and forehead, chimes, chirps of chatter in the bazaar, amen, amen, amen, the plump fish rushing to take the bread you toss, scraping of a carpenter, the hiss of chalk, the wisps of clouds cradling you as you nap, the splashes of water in a hot pool, the picnic in a meadow, the pounding of feet that are chasing you, the velvet of petals rustling you awake, a giant water lily beneath you, the innocent kiss, the sprawl of the universe reflected in your eyes for the first time, the bloody wings that shred out of your back, the apples in orchards, a basket of stained flowers, excited chants of a colosseum audience, the heat of spinning and bouncing to drums and claps, the love braided into your hair, the trickles of a piano, smell of myrrh, the scratches of a spoon in a cup, the coarseness of a carpet, the stringed instruments and trumpets, the serene smile of not knowing, the sleeping angel, the delight of a creator, the amusement of gossip and rumors, the rumbling laughter between shy singing, the tangling of legs, squash, celery, carrot, and chayote, the swirled face paint, the warmth of honey in your tea, the timid face in the mirror, mahogany beams, the embrace of a bed of flowers, the taste of a grape as its fed to you, the lip smacks of an angel as you feed him a raspberry, the first dizziness of alcohol, the cool water and scent of natron and the scratch of the rock you beat your dirty clothes against, the strain of your arms, the columns of an entrance, the high ceilings of a dark cathedral, the boiling surface of bubbling stew, the burn of stained-glass, the little joyous jump you do seeing bread rise, the silky taste of olive oil, the lap of an angel humming as he embroiders a little fox into his tunic, the softness of browned feathers lulling you to sleep, the weight of a dozen blankets and pillows on your small bed, the proud smile on the other side of a window in a newly-finished building, the myrtle trees only you two know about, the palm of god as he fashions you from threads of copper, his praises, his love, his kiss to your hair, your father.

Father will bury us with both hands. He boasts of me to his so-called friends, telling them I’m the next queen of this kingdom. I don’t think he’s ever paid so much attention to me before, and even now, it is minuscule, not for my own benefit. He pretends to love me now because of another, because of Tibe. Only when someone else sees worth in me does he condescend to do the same. Because of her father, she dreamed of a Queenstrial she did not win, of being cast aside and returned to the old estate. Once there, she was made to sleep in the family tomb, beside the still, bare body of her uncle. When the corpse twitched, hands reaching for her throat, she would wake, drenched in sweat, unable to sleep for the rest of the night. Julian and Sara think me weak, fragile, a porcelain doll who will shatter if touched, she wrote. Worst of all, I’m beginning to believe them. Am I really so frail? So useless? Surely I can be of some help somehow, if Julian would only ask? Are Jessamine’s lessons the best I can do? What am I becoming in this place? I doubt I even remember how to replace a lightbulb. I am not someone I recognize. Is this what growing up means? Because of Julian, she dreamed of being in a beautiful room. But every door was locked, every window shut, with nothing and no one to keep her company. Not even books. Nothing to upset her. And always, the room would become a birdcage with gilded bars. It would shrink and shrink until it cut her skin, waking her up. I am not the monster the gossips think me to be. I’ve done nothing, manipulated no one. I haven’t even attempted to use my ability in months, since Julian has no more time to teach me. But they don’t believe that. I see how they look at me, even the whispers of House Merandus. Even Elara. I have not heard her in my head since the banquet, when her sneers drove me to Tibe. Perhaps that taught her better than to meddle. Or maybe she is afraid of looking into my eyes and hearing my voice, as if I’m some kind of match for her razored whispers. I am not, of course. I am hopelessly undefended against people like her. Perhaps I should thank whoever started the rumor. It keeps predators like her from making me prey. Because of Elara, she dreamed of ice-blue eyes following her every move, watching as she donned a crown. People bowed under her gaze and sneered when she turned away, plotting against their newly made queen. They feared her and hated her in equal measure, each one a wolf waiting for her to be revealed as a lamb. She sang in the dream, a wordless song that did nothing but double their bloodlust. Sometimes they killed her, sometimes they ignored her, sometimes they put her in a cell. All three wrenched her from sleep. Today Tibe said he loves me, that he wants to marry me. I do not believe him. Why would he want such a thing? I am no one of consequence. No great beauty or intellect, no strength or power to aid his reign. I bring nothing to him but worry and weight. He needs someone strong at his side, a person who laughs at the gossips and overcomes her own doubts. Tibe is as weak as I am, a lonely boy without a path of his own. I will only make things worse. I will only bring him pain. How can I do that? Because of Tibe, she dreamed of leaving court for good. Like Julian wanted to do, to keep Sara from staying behind. The locations varied with the changing nights. She ran to Delphie or Harbor Bay or Piedmont or even the Lakelands, each one painted in shades of black and gray. Shadow cities to swallow her up and hide her from the prince and the crown he offered. But they frightened her too. And they were always empty, even of ghosts. In these dreams, she ended up alone. From these dreams, she woke quietly, in the morning, with dried tears and an aching heart.

What signs will warn of the approaching Tribulation period? These ten events are the things we can expect in embryonic form in the days preceding the Rapture and the beginning of the Tribulation. These ten things will continue to multiply and progress as the first three and one-half years of the Great Tribulation unfold. • A Time of Deception—“Many will come in My name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many” (Matthew 24:5). • A Time of Dissension—“You will hear of wars and rumors of wars . . . Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom” (Matthew 24:6–7). • A Time of Devastation—“There will be famines . . .” (Matthew 24:7). • A Time of Disease—“ . . . pestilences . . .” (Matthew 24:7). • A Time of Disasters—“ . . . and earthquakes in various places” (Matthew 24:7). • A Time of Death—“They will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you, and you will be hated by all nations for My name’s sake” (Matthew 24:9). • A Time of Disloyalty—“Many will be offended, will betray one another, and will hate one another” (Matthew 24:10). • A Time of Delusion—“Many false prophets will rise up and deceive many” (Matthew 24:11). It should also be noted that part of the delusion will be an increase in drug use. One of the characteristics of the end times’ false religion will be what the book of Revelation calls “sorceries” (9:21). The word John uses is pharmakia, from which we get the word pharmacy. It is an ancient reference to the ingestion of drugs. The use of mind-altering substances such as narcotics and hallucinogens will be associated with false religions, doubtless with the approval of the government. • A Time of Defection—“Because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold” (Matthew 24:12). People will turn away from God and from one another. • A Time of Declaration—“This gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations” (Matthew 24:14). Life on earth will be relinquished to flourishing evil.

I due agenti si divisero, Uno fece un cenno d’assenso a Due che andò verso la porta dell’ufficio. Abbassò la maniglia, la porta era chiusa a chiave. Scivolò lungo la parete attento a non fare rumore. Li avrebbero presi questa volta. Si trattava di giovani non schedati, ladri adolescenti, secondo l’informatore, e nessuno voleva che la cosa si trasformasse in un bagno di sangue. Le armi dovevano restare nella fondina, gli ordini erano chiari, niente sparatorie da far west e cadaveri che facessero “strillare" la stampa sulla crudeltà delle forze dell’ordine. Ma andavano fermati. Piccoli bastardi (.............) E fu mentre formulava questo pensiero che un rumore metallico gli fece alzare gli occhi, un’ombra uscita dal nulla balzò oltre la ringhiera, atterrando a quattro zampe sulla pila di cassoni, poi si raccolse come un gatto e saltò verso il montacarichi, si afferrò a una delle rotaie verticali, s’inarcò come un saltatore con l’asta, la testa in giù. Le gambe descrissero un’ellisse impossibile, le ginocchia si piegarono e con una spinta delle reni il ragazzo superò la ringhiera del ballatoio, parve rimbalzare in su, sullo scaffale di ferro e scomparve nell’oscurità del soffitto (..........) I due agenti spinsero la porta a vetri e a balzi risalirono la scala di emergenza esterna, che finiva però a due metri dal tetto. Uno, più agile, si issò sui pali di sostegno, mentre Due abbaiava alla radio. Quindi anche lui si inerpicò ansando e guadagnò la cima. Rimasero là qualche istante, interdetti, scrutando nel buio. - Laggiù! – Gridò Due. L’ombra correva sul tetto del magazzino, un essere magrissimo, un nulla in movimento che sparì dietro la sagoma dell’abbaino. Uno estrasse la pistola dalla fondina, fece fuoco in aria e subito la volante accese la sirena. I due agenti corsero, girarono attorno all’abbaino e non videro nessuno. Si voltarono, niente. Pareva evaporato. Giunti al limite del tetto si fermarono. L’edificio accanto, un deposito chiuso, era a vari metri di distanza. Sotto c’erano tre piani e il cortile asfaltato. Si guardarono intorno, era saltato di là? Quei due depositi erano gli unici edifici vicini. Più in là, oltre un campo abbandonato che sembrava una palude c’era solo un enorme ammasso di rottami, la strada a quattro corsie e il mare. Il fuggitivo non aveva scampo, si trattava solo di evitare la tragedia. La figura riapparve correndo piegata sul tetto dello stabile di fronte, oltre il quale non c’era niente, il vuoto, la notte. Uno fece fuoco in aria un’altra volta, ma lui non parve accorgersene, giunse al parapetto, vi salì sopra e rimase accovacciato come un animale. - Ma che diavolo fa? – Disse Due. Il ladro si alzò in piedi e per alcuni secondi rimase dritto, silhouette nera contro il cielo chiaro di nubi. Poi, senza guardarsi indietro, si lanciò nel vuoto. da B-Loved

Come Friday morning, I expect to see you on that train.” She crossed her arms. “I’ll be back. This is my town. And not even you can keep me away forever.” “You don’t have to stay away forever. Only until Ada and I have gone to Texas.” “So the rumors are true. You do intend to marry that wheyfaced Yankee.” “If she’ll have me.” He opened the schoolhouse door, letting in a blast of frigid air. “Friday, Bea. And don’t forget to wear your new Ada Wentworth hat.

Then how do you know about the ghosts?” Ike reasoned. “If no one leaves alive, who tells you about them?” Marcel paused, mouth open, realizing the small snag in his logic. “Well there are rumors.” “Perhaps one or two have come out,” Ike suggested. “Perhaps.” “We’d love to speak with one of them,” Alfred said. “Well, I don’t know of one specifically,” Marcel’s voice trailed off. “You could try talking to Sam.” Sam. An unusual

Traigh began the taunting first. “Pray, tell me brother, be there any truth to these rumors floatin’ about the keep?” Graeme shot him a look of warning. It didn’t do a bit of good. “What rumors be those, brother Traigh?” Albert asked, feigning ignorance on the matter. Traigh crossed his arms over his chest. “Why, the rumors that our brother Graeme has fallen in love with our Joie. So much so that they will be married this verra day.” Graeme had two choices. He could tell his brothers to shut their mouths and leave him be or he could stand like a man and admit the truth, at least as much of it as he could without looking like a fool. “Aye,” he said as he stepped toward them. “The rumors be true. I have fallen hopelessly in love with my Joie, and aye, we will be married this verra day. Before the evenin’ meal, in fact.” Traigh and Albert were momentarily stunned at Graeme’s open admission. But ’twas short-lived. Broad smiles broke out on their faces and soon, they were congratulating him with hugs and heavy slaps on the back. When the celebrating was over, Traigh asked, “Do ye ken what ye’re to do this night? After the weddin’?” Graeme’s smile evaporated almost instantly. “If ye utter one unkind, disrespectful word as it pertains to consummation and me wife, I swear, I will beat ye within an inch of yer life.” Traigh quickly wiped away the smile and attempted to appear serious and fully chastised. “Aye, Albert, he be in love, let there be no doubt.

Pray tell me, whatever is the matter, my dear? But please smile so as not to incite the gossip mill again,” Ian said pleasantly, as if they were exchanging small talk. Her teeth clenched in a hideous parody of a grin and she hissed, “Why are you doing this? You can’t possibly need my dowry, and I am certain as bloody hell that you do not love me.” In truth, he hadn’t completely expected Angelica to fly into his arms and squeal in joy at his suit, but her degree of hostility came as an unpleasant surprise. “Such language is quite unseemly, Angel.” He smiled down at her but tightened his grip on her hand. “Though I do admire that you are astute enough to know I have plenty of wealth in my own right, surely you were raised to expect that love is hardly a necessary ingredient to a successful marriage.” Angelica’s laughter mocked him. “I am breathless with your flattery. Pray continue.” Ian was torn between amusement at her daring and anger because she was forcing him to muddle through this awkward explanation. She should be more grateful than her mother had been for saving her and her family from social death. Leaning down as if to smell her perfume, he lowered his voice. “Spare me from your wrath, Angel. Since you insist upon knowing, I will tell you that your reputation was not the only one in danger. Thanks to that upstart, John Polidori, and his story taking the Continent by storm, people have become suspicious of me.” “Ah, the rumors that you are a vampire,” she replied with a smirk.

harm in allowing them to retain their positions.” “Well, they certainly do fit the roles for caretakers of a haunted castle, but you have yet to truly explain why you bought the place.” Plucking a long piece of grass out of the ground, Bram rolled it between his fingers. “Who doesn’t want to live in a haunted castle?” Lucetta arched a perfect brow his way. “Oh, very well,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but only because I’m not certain I’m quite ready to add nagging to the long list of supposed charms I’ve had to accept about you recently.” “I don’t nag,” Lucetta muttered. “That may well be debatable, but . . . back to my story. You see, the previous owner, Mr. Woodward, had recently suffered some extensive losses in the market, and because of that, he did not have the luxury of taking a financial loss on Ravenwood once rumors spread that it was haunted. However, since his wife refused to step foot inside the castle once she came to the belief it was well and truly haunted, he found himself in a bit of a bind, so . . . I stepped in and bought it from him.” “Good heavens, Mr. Skukman was right. You do enjoy rescuing people,” he heard Lucetta say under her breath before she lifted her head and sent him a smile that showed a great deal of teeth. “It was very nice of you to buy Ravenwood from that man.” Bram shoved aside the peculiar thought that she didn’t actually seem to like the idea that he enjoyed rescuing people, and summoned up a smile of his own. “I had the means to buy Ravenwood, and I love the castle, so helping out Mr. Woodward wasn’t an act of any great consequence.” “I’m certain it was to him.” He turned his attention to the sheep, all of which were back to grazing as Igor slunk around them. Looking back at Lucetta, Bram caught her eye. “Just as I’ve come to discover you don’t care to have people remark on your skills on stage, I don’t particularly care to talk about the assistance I extend to people.” He smiled. “Reverend Gilmore, a dear friend I met about a year ago, once told me that he believes God puts people on certain paths. And when you cross paths with a person who is in need, and you have the solution to that need, well, God expects you to put that solution to use. I don’t know about you, but I’m not one to argue with God.” Lucetta’s

Nigel doesn’t speak of your father, dear. I learned about your father, as well as a good deal about your entire family, from a tracker I hired to look into your past. I thought he was well worth his exorbitant fee, what with the discovery of Nigel. But then . . . after I won you fair and square in that card game, you did the unthinkable and fled.” “You and I both know that you didn’t win anything fair and square.” When Silas sent her a wink, she almost choked on the small bite of bread she’d put in her mouth. “Come now, dear, surely you’ve figured out that all of this”—he gestured around the room, and at the meal—“as well as the money it took to track you down, was my way of proving to you once and for all that you and I are meant to be together.” Lucetta narrowed her eyes. “Rumor has it around town that you’ve been short of funds ever since you and Oliver Addleshaw parted ways.” Silas narrowed his eyes back at her until he, curiously enough, laughed. “Is that why you’ve given me such a difficult time, my girl? You think I’ll be unable to keep you in style?” Blinking, Lucetta found she had no response to that piece of ridiculousness, but she was spared the need to respond when Silas continued. “You’ll be relieved to learn that my wife, harridan that she is, has a great deal of money—although she can be tightfisted with it at times, which means I have to encourage her to send money my way when I’m short on funds.” His smile widened. “But she’s learned over the years it’s easier to simply hand me money rather than have me encourage her to hand it over. That means I’ll have no problem keeping you knee-deep in lovely gowns and whatever other frivolous items you may want.” His words had Lucetta setting down the rest of the bread, unable to eat another bite. For a man to speak so casually about encouraging his wife, which could only mean abusing her, made Lucetta physically ill. “And while I’m sure that you’ll miss the theater, dear, do know that after you’ve accustomed yourself to me and my . . . needs, I may return you to the theater—if only to allow all of those gentlemen who salivate over you, and have done so for years, to see you performing for me, and only for me as I sit in a private box and watch your every move, and . . .” Whatever else Silas intended to say was lost when there was another knock on the door. “Go

I’d heard rumors of “love hotels”—which are what they sound like: hotels specifically built for hooking up. But, of course, this being Japan, they sometimes have really amazing decor—there’s even a Jurassic Park–themed one. Seriously, this exists. I am not joking.

If I would've known back then that feeling was love, I would've tried to find you sooner. You, Rumor Rawlings, are my greatest find.

Real life is so all-absorbing that it doesn’t leave us time to create an imaginary, parallel life. It’s very hard not to stay in love with or be captivated by someone who makes us laugh and does so even though he often mistreats us; the hardest thing to give up is that companionable laughter, once you’ve met someone and decided to stay with them. How cast down we are by rejection, and how much power accrues to the person to whom we gave that power, for no one can take power unless it is first given or conferred, unless you’re prepared to adore and fear that person, unless you aspire to being loved by him or to enjoy his unswerving approval, any such ambition is a sign of conceit and that conceit is what weakens and leaves us defenseless: once that ambition remains unsatisfied or unfulfilled, it marks the beginning of our downfall. Sensations are unstable things, they become transformed in memory, they shift and dance, they can prevail over what was said and heard, over rejection or acceptance. Sometimes, sensations can make us give up and, at others, encourage us to try again. That Spanish mania for mixing business deals with a semblance of incipient friendship. In Spain, oddly enough, it’s considered far more prestigious to be known by one’s first name, and this applies to only four or five or six people: “Federico” is always García Lorca, just as “Rubén” is Rubén Darío, “Juan Ramón” is the Nobel Laureate Jiménez, “Ramón” is Gómez de la Serna, “Mossèn Cinto” is Verdaguer and, five centuries on, “Garcilaso” is Garcilaso de la Vega. In the face of ignorance, one is always free to invent. “Far too civilized. Airport hub. Business deals by the shedload. No, I don’t like it, I don’t like it all. Tons of visitors. The annual Buchmesse. Money calling to money. Rumor on the other hand is what lasts, it’s unstoppable, undying, the one thing that endures. I certainly don’t want to give that imbecile the gift of a rumor. He probably often had such attacks of oral literature. Whoever he was with and whatever the circumstances, he found it hard not to slip into pedantic, didactic mode. Like many unhappy, lonely people, he kept a diary. Curiosity makes us lose all caution. Unhappy people often insist on trying to uncover the full magnitude of their unhappiness, or choose to investigate other people’s lives as a distraction from their own. The eyes of the imagination, which are the eyes that best remember a scene and best recall it later. In the middle of the night everything seems plausible and real. Desire is a selfish thing too and will do almost anything to achieve satisfaction—lie, flatter, take risks, inveigle, make false promises. A nostalgia for the life you discarded always lingers on in the inner depths of your being, and, during bad times, you seek refuge in it as you might in a daydream or a fantasy. I sometimes think that the bonds of deceit and unhappiness are the strongest of all, as are those of error; they may bind even more closely than those of openness, contentment and sincerity. We do sometimes bring about what we most fear because the only way of freeing ourselves from that fear is for the bad thing actually to have happened, for it to be in the past and not in the future or in the realm of possibilities. For it to remain behind.

Dear brother priests, your mission is to carry the Cross into the heart of the world. Your life is centered on the daily celebration of the Sacrifice of the Mass, which renews the sacrifice of the Cross. Your daily life is a continuation of the Cross. You are the men of the Cross! Be not afraid! With all my heart as a bishop, I wish to encourage you. Do not let yourselves be troubled by the rumors of the world. They mock your celibacy but they are afraid of you. Do not depart from the Cross. It is the source of all life and of all true love. In anchoring your lives to the Cross, you settle at the source of all good:

Midwives and winding sheets know birthing is hard and dying is mean and living’s a trial in between. Why do we journey, muttering like rumors among the stars? Is a dimension lost? Is it love?

If we train her, honing her skills as a chef to the very utmost of her considerable ability... ... then it's possible we could delay the day the storm takes her. We must raise Erina to be the greatest chef the Nakiri Family has ever produced! And to do so, we must find them! Find the perfect rocks that will polish her to a mirror shine... A Veritable Generation of Diamonds! Professor Hayama. I hear your student Shiomi has found an intriguing boy overseas." "S-Sir Senzaemon! How did you...?!" "Oh, I simply happened to overhear it. Have you thought of bringing that boy to Japan and enrolling him here?" "What?! B-but, sir! Not only is Akira a foreigner, he's an orphan of unknown origins! Is such a thing even possible?!" "I will speak with the Ministry of Justice. Whether it be through bribery or sheer force... I will see to it that they grant Akira Hayama Japanese citizenship." "Darling... You know that boy from the harbor pub? Now Alice is insisting that he come with her back to Japan, and she won't listen to reason. Father is right. For Mana's sake... ... I will help him with his plan. If Alice wants to bring Ryo Kurokiba, then so be it! He will learn at Totsuki alongside her! I've heard all the rumors about them, you know. So you have not one but two highly talented nephews? How wonderful! Their futures look bright indeed. Say... have you thought of sending them to our Institute? I'm sure the Aldini Brothers would do well there." "Okay, okay. You win. Geez. Stubborn old coot. But don't come crying to me... ... if Soma flips the tables on your grandkid and uses her as a steppingstone." Competing against Erina just may destroy the confidence of these children, but so be it! I'm fully aware that this plan is an imperious use of my power for personal gain... ... but I'm willing to make any sacrifice! I will do whatever it takes to make Erina into a light of hope! Then I will show her to Mana... Through her own daughter she will see... ... that there is yet hope and promise in cooking!"

Rumor was—or so Lude confided; I've always loved the way Lude could 'confide' a rumor—

Just tell me. What is odd about the Callans? Something that is carried in the blood?” Jankyn nodded. “Cats. The original source of the, er, taint is a wee bit obscure. Twas either brought back by a Crusader or from some ancient Celtic bride, a priestess in the old religion, a shape-shifter.” He shrugged. “Despite what I am, I find that a wee bit difficult to imagine. But, there it is. The Callans appear to have done what ye plan to do—bred it out. There are tales from the old, misty past that hint at some difficulties because of this trait, but the Callans began to be verra particular in their mates. Their family lines are kept meticulously complete right to the most distant of cousins. Intermarriage, no matter how rich the prize, is strictly forbidden for fear that this trait will blossom in its full glory again and pull them all back into danger.” “So, they have bred it out then?” Cathal could understand why Bridget might hide this fact about her clan, but still felt hurt and angry that she would hide it from him. “Most of it. There lingers a hint, though. In the coloring, for example. Twas the medallion that set me on the right path. It reminded me of a tale I had once been told. I found that and soon tracked down the rest. It also explains a lot of things such as how your wife hisses and scratches, how she can run as she does.” “How she purrs,” Cathal whispered. “Does she? How intriguing.” Jankyn met Cathal’s scowl with a sweet smile. “The way she seems to sense danger, her keen eyesight, especially in the dark, and that certain grace she has. All Callan women are rumored to be small, lovely, graceful, passionate, and fertile. Verra, verra fertile. Your wee wife comes from a verra big family.” “Do ye recall the first night she was here? The way she acted when she first awoke?” Jankyn nodded. “Verra like a cat.” “Aye, but for one fleeting moment there was something in her face, something verra catlike.” “Why didnae ye say so?” “I thought it a trick of the light. Now I think not. It also means it might be impossible to breed out all our MacNachton traits. The Callans havenae fully succeeded, have they?” “Would that be such a bad thing? I can think of a few that would only serve us weel and would only raise envy, nay fear.” “True. I suspicion some of the things in the Callan bloodline do the same. The more I think on it, the more I curse myself as a blind fool. Aye, some of what Bridget does could just be considered, weel, a female’s ways. But nay all of them. Certainly nay the way she fought Edmee. I was but stunned when Edmee tossed me aside. Couldnae move, but I could see how Bridget leapt at Edmee. She used those cursed long nails of hers on Edmee and it took Edmee a few moments to get a firm grasp on Bridget. I can now see that the way Bridget moved to try to stay out of Edmee’s grasp was verra like a cat. Then Edmee threw Bridget and, somehow, e’en as she was flying through the air, she curled that wee body of hers into a ball. That and the heather saved her.” “Aye. Raibeart and I were close enough to see that. Raibeart still mutters about it. That and the fact that your wee wife made sure to take a few large hanks of Edmee’s hair with her when she was thrown. Of course, a cat is said to land on its feet. For one wee minute, I truly thought she was about to perform that wondrous feat, but then she curled up into the ball. I wonder why.” “Mayhap when I have finished bellowing at her, I will ask her that question.” He smiled faintly when Jankyn laughed. “So, ye will keep her?” “Aye. E’en when I feared ye were about to tell me she had MacNachton blood, something that would near ruin all my grand plans, I meant to keep her.” He sighed, finished off his wine, then rose to refill his goblet. “I had best send for her, confront her with this, and hear what she has to say for herself.” “No need. I believe I hear the patter of wee paws approaching.” Cathal

Cats. The original source of the, er, taint is a wee bit obscure. Twas either brought back by a Crusader or from some ancient Celtic bride, a priestess in the old religion, a shape-shifter.” He shrugged. “Despite what I am, I find that a wee bit difficult to imagine. But, there it is. The Callans appear to have done what ye plan to do—bred it out. There are tales from the old, misty past that hint at some difficulties because of this trait, but the Callans began to be verra particular in their mates. Their family lines are kept meticulously complete right to the most distant of cousins. Intermarriage, no matter how rich the prize, is strictly forbidden for fear that this trait will blossom in its full glory again and pull them all back into danger.” “So, they have bred it out then?” Cathal could understand why Bridget might hide this fact about her clan, but still felt hurt and angry that she would hide it from him. “Most of it. There lingers a hint, though. In the coloring, for example. Twas the medallion that set me on the right path. It reminded me of a tale I had once been told. I found that and soon tracked down the rest. It also explains a lot of things such as how your wife hisses and scratches, how she can run as she does.” “How she purrs,” Cathal whispered. “Does she? How intriguing.” Jankyn met Cathal’s scowl with a sweet smile. “The way she seems to sense danger, her keen eyesight, especially in the dark, and that certain grace she has. All Callan women are rumored to be small, lovely, graceful, passionate, and fertile. Verra, verra fertile. Your wee wife comes from a verra big family.” “Do ye recall the first night she was here? The way she acted when she first awoke?” Jankyn nodded. “Verra like a cat.” “Aye, but for one fleeting moment there was something in her face, something verra catlike.” “Why didnae ye say so?” “I thought it a trick of the light. Now I think not. It also means it might be impossible to breed out all our MacNachton traits. The Callans havenae fully succeeded, have they?” “Would that be such a bad thing? I can think of a few that would only serve us weel and would only raise envy, nay fear.” “True. I suspicion some of the things in the Callan bloodline do the same. The more I think on it, the more I curse myself as a blind fool. Aye, some of what Bridget does could just be considered, weel, a female’s ways. But nay all of them. Certainly nay the way she fought Edmee. I was but stunned when Edmee tossed me aside. Couldnae move, but I could see how Bridget leapt at Edmee. She used those cursed long nails of hers on Edmee and it took Edmee a few moments to get a firm grasp on Bridget. I can now see that the way Bridget moved to try to stay out of Edmee’s grasp was verra like a cat. Then Edmee threw Bridget and, somehow, e’en as she was flying through the air, she curled that wee body of hers into a ball. That and the heather saved her.” “Aye. Raibeart and I were close enough to see that. Raibeart still mutters about it. That and the fact that your wee wife made sure to take a few large hanks of Edmee’s hair with her when she was thrown. Of course, a cat is said to land on its feet. For one wee minute, I truly thought she was about to perform that wondrous feat, but then she curled up into the ball. I wonder why.” “Mayhap when I have finished bellowing at her, I will ask her that question.” He smiled faintly when Jankyn laughed. “So, ye will keep her?” “Aye. E’en when I feared ye were about to tell me she had MacNachton blood, something that would near ruin all my grand plans, I meant to keep her.” He sighed, finished off his wine, then rose to refill his goblet. “I had best send for her, confront her with this, and hear what she has to say for herself.” “No need. I believe I hear the patter of wee paws approaching.” Cathal gave Jankyn a disgusted look as he retook his seat. “I would be wary of teasing her too much. Dinnae forget those nails.” “Cathal?

Kryptonite. I love their smell, their taste, the sounds they make when they come inside of me. But between a full-time job, law school, hours of reading cases, and study groups, I barely have time to sleep, much less date. Which is why I gave them up. “Which floor?” His upper crust Brit accent curls around my spine, making mush out of me. “Uh, nine.” I reach across to press the ‘9’ button, and a whiff of his scent reaches me—expensive cologne, clean soap, and a base note I suspect is just him. My legs, already wobbly from the mad dash from the Metro, turn to Jell-O. Damn! No wonder women stuff panties in his pockets. The man is pure sex on a stick. If anybody could tempt me to break my no-screwing-men vow, yeah, it would be Gabriel Storm. The door closes and someone coughs, alerting me to the other people in the elevator. Hoping no one noticed my temporary lapse of sanity, I look behind me. Only blank expressions greet me. Thank God. It won’t do for a rumor to spread around the office that I’ve been caught drooling over the COO of the company we are negotiating against. No one would take me seriously after that. I do the polite thing and wish good morning all around, get back a couple of nods before the car reaches the second floor, site of my law firm’s cafeteria. As soon as the door opens, the smell of cinnamon drifts into the car. Stuffed French toast day. Knowing what’s coming, I step to the side to avoid the stampede. Not that I blame them. With a limited supply of the delicious treat, it’s every employee for himself. When the doors slide shut, Gabriel Storm and I are the sole occupants in the car. For seven floors,

So you’ve run off from him, have you?” Beatrix asked, smoothing the wiry ruff on his head. “Naughty boy. I suppose you’ve had a fine old time chasing rabbits and squirrels. And there’s a damaging rumor about a missing chicken. You had better stay out of poultry yards, or it won’t go well for you in Stony Cross. Shall I take you home, boy? He’s probably looking for you. He--” She stopped at the sound of something…someone…moving through the thicket. Albert turned his head and let out a happy bark, bounding toward the approaching figure. Beatrix was slow to lift her head. She struggled to moderate her breathing, and tried to calm the frantic stutters of her heart. She was aware of the dog bounding joyfully back to her, tongue dangling. He glanced back at his master as if to convey Look what I found! Letting out a slow breath, Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped.

So you’ve run off from him, have you?” Beatrix asked, smoothing the wiry ruff on his head. “Naughty boy. I suppose you’ve had a fine old time chasing rabbits and squirrels. And there’s a damaging rumor about a missing chicken. You had better stay out of poultry yards, or it won’t go well for you in Stony Cross. Shall I take you home, boy? He’s probably looking for you. He--” She stopped at the sound of something…someone…moving through the thicket. Albert turned his head and let out a happy bark, bounding toward the approaching figure. Beatrix was slow to lift her head. She struggled to moderate her breathing, and tried to calm the frantic stutters of her heart. She was aware of the dog bounding joyfully back to her, tongue dangling. He glanced back at his master as if to convey Look what I found! Letting out a slow breath, Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus…now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “Welcome home, Captain Phelan.” He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes…frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. “I’m Beatrix Hathaway,” she managed to say. “My family--” “I remember you.” The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn’t aware of it. Her hand moved gently over Albert’s rough fur. “You were absent in London,” she said. “There was a great deal of hullabaloo on your behalf.” “I wasn’t ready for it.” So much was expressed in that spare handful of words. Of course he wasn’t ready. The contrast would be too jarring, the blood-soaked brutality of war followed by a fanfare of parades and trumpets and flower petals. “I can’t imagine any sane man would be,” she said. “It’s quite an uproar. Your picture is in all the shop windows. And they’re naming things after you.” “Things,” he repeated cautiously. “There’s a Phelan hat.” His brows lowered. “No there isn’t.” “Oh, yes there is. Rounded at the top. Narrow-brimmed. Sold in shades of gray or black. They have one featured at the milliner’s in Stony Cross.” Scowling, Christopher muttered something beneath his breath.

I’ll escort you to London in a few days, if you like. I had already planned to go there to see Prudence Mercer.” Audrey frowned. “Oh.” Christopher gave her a questioning glance. “I gather your opinion of her has not changed.” “Oh, it has. It’s worsened.” He couldn’t help but feel defensive on Prudence’s behalf. “Why?” “For the past two years, Prudence has earned a reputation as a shameless flirt. Her ambition to marry a wealthy man, preferably a peer, is known to everyone. I hope you have no illusions that she pined for you in your absence.” “I would hardly expect her to don sackcloth while I was gone.” “Good, because she didn’t. In fact, from all appearances you slipped from her mind completely.” Audrey paused before adding bitterly, “However, soon after John passed away and you became the new heir to Riverton, Prudence evinced a great deal of renewed interest in you.” Christopher showed no expression as he puzzled over this unwelcome information. It sounded nothing like the woman who had corresponded with him. Clearly Prudence was the victim of vicious rumors--and in light of her beauty and charm, that was entirely expected. However, he had no desire to start an argument with his sister-in-law. Hoping to distract her from the volatile subject of Prudence Mercer, he said, “I happened to meet one of your friends today, when I chanced upon her during a walk.” “Who?” “Miss Hathaway.” “Beatrix?” Audrey looked at him attentively. “I hope you were polite to her.” “Not especially,” he admitted. “What did you say to her?” He scowled into his teacup. “I insulted her hedgehog,” he muttered. Audrey looked exasperated. “Oh, good God.

Emma, we’ve got to elope—now. Tonight. That way, I’ll be able to present you to Mother as a fait accompli.” Stunned, Emma jerked her arm from his grasp. “Fulton, I’ve told you…” He laid a fingertip to her lips. “Don’t say it. I know Mother intimidates you, Emma, but once you’re my wife, she’ll accept you, I know she will.” The pain Emma felt must have been visible in her eyes when she looked up at Fulton, but if he saw it, he didn’t react. Perhaps he would listen if she approached the subject from his point of view, rather than her own. “Fulton, there’s a lot of talk about me, and—” His hands grasped her shoulders. “I don’t care, Emma,” he whispered. For the first time, she noticed that his lower lip was cut and slightly swollen. She touched the wound gently. “What happened?” Again his eyes skirted hers. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, darling,” he said. “Now, listen to me. We must get married right away!” “I can’t do that,” Emma said miserably. “I know women like a church wedding, but—” “That isn’t the reason. Fulton, I don’t love you. It would be a dreadful mistake for us to marry.” He was still holding her shoulders, and he gave her an angry little shake. “You’ll have tender feelings for me soon, Emma, I promise you. Come away with me tonight!” Emma pulled free. “I can’t.” “Is it true, then, Emma—what everybody’s saying about you and Fairfax?” The question was so direct that it startled Emma. “I guess that depends on what’s being said,” she replied sadly. Then, holding her shawl more closely around her against the evening chill, she started up the bank toward Chloe’s house. Fulton had no choice but to follow. He stopped her at the edge of the lawn, again by taking her arm. This time his hold was too tight for her to pull out of. “I don’t care if it’s all true,” he sputtered. “Do you hear me, Emma? I don’t care. I still want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything!” Emma sighed. “What are they saying?” she asked, braced for the worst. Fulton’s hand dropped from her arm and he lowered his head. “That you spent the nights in his room.” Emma’s cheeks flamed, but her chin rose to an obstinate level. “That’s a lie.” A bright smile broke over Fulton’s face. “I knew it was.” Guilt pummeled Emma like an invisible fist. “You’d want to marry me, even if I’d said the rumors were true?” Fulton nodded. “It’s no secret that I’m eager for the—solaces of marriage, Emma. I’m willing to overlook a great deal to have you.” The

Alex whispers, “There’s a thin line between love and hate. Maybe you’re confusing your emotions.” I scoot away from him. “I wouldn’t bet on it.” “I would.” Alex’s gaze turns toward the door to the classroom. Through the window, his friend is waving to him. They’re probably going to ditch class. Alex grabs his books and stands. Mrs. Peterson turns around. “Alex, sit down.” “I got to piss.” The teacher’s eyebrows furrow and her hand goes to her hip. “Watch your language. And the last time I checked, you don’t need your books in order to go to the restroom. Put them back on the lab table.” Alex’s lips are tight, but he places the books back on the table. “I told you no gang-related items in my class,” Mrs. Peterson says, staring at the bandanna he’s holding in front of him. She holds out her hand. “Hand it over.” He glances at the door, then faces Mrs. Peterson. “What if I refuse?” “Alex, don’t test me. Zero tolerance. You want a suspension?” She wiggles her fingers, signaling to hand the bandana over immediately or else. Scowling, he slowly places the bandana in her hand. Mrs. Peterson sucks in her breath when she snatches the bandanna from his fingers. I screech, “Ohmygod!” at the sight of the big stain on his crotch. The students, one by one, start laughing. Colin laughs the loudest. “Don’t sweat it, Fuentes. My great-grandma has the same problem. Nothing a diaper won’t fix.” Now that hits home because at the mention of adult diapers, I immediately think of my sister. Making fun of adults who can’t help themselves isn’t funny because Shelley is one of those people. Alex sports a big, cocky grin and says to Colin, “Your girlfriend couldn’t keep her hands out of my pants. She was showin’ me a whole new definition of hand warmers, compa.” This time he’s gone too far. I stand up, my stool scraping the floor. “You wish,” I say. Alex is about to say something to me when Mrs. Peterson yells, “Alex!” She clears her throat. “Go to the nurse and…fix yourself. Take your books, because afterward you’ll be seeing Dr. Aguirre. I’ll meet you in his office with your friends Colin and Brittany.” Alex swipes his books off the table and exits the classroom while I ease back onto my stool. While Mrs. Peterson is trying to calm the rest of the class, I think about my short-lived success in avoiding Carmen Sanchez. If she thinks I’m a threat to her relationship with Alex, the rumors that are sure to spread today could prove deadly.

In my mind there’s a difference between a rumor and a lie: intent. People tell rumors to hurt someone else. People tell lies to save themselves. Or someone they love.

He's sorta dreamy out there on the field. I love watching him play. He's so talented, so in command of his teammates and his game play. Rumors are already spreading of how his chance of an NFL contract is getting close and closer

What the hell does this say about India? Appearances are more important than truths. Gossip is more potent than facts. Loyalty is all one way, from the woman to the man. And when society stacks up all the odds against a woman, she’d better not count on the man’s support. She has no way out other than to end her own life. And I’m in love with an Indian. I must be crazy.

I've heard rumors about people who've recently found the love of their life. Those rumors have it that lovestruck couples soon turn their thoughts to securing love matches for anyone in their direct vicinity who may not be otherwise engaged. ~Gertrude

Sienna woke up to the sound of panic coming from Paige’s side of the room. “Shit. What the….Why am I? Oh my God.” Paige said, sounding like she was on the verge of tears before running out of the room. Sienna began laughing uncontrollably. It had taken a full week of patiently waiting for this moment and she was glad she was around to witness it. She knew exactly what had just happened and all she needed was a bag of popcorn to make the moment an even more entertaining show. She grabbed her shower caddy and made her way to the showers for a casual stroll. She’d pretend she was in for a shower and catch the show live and in person. Payback really was a bitch. Upon walking into the community showers, the echoing sounds of Paige’s whimpers led Sienna right to her. Sienna walked around with her caddy, with a smile on her face and eventually was within sight of Paige. Her athletically toned body was red from the scorching hot water hitting her body. She scratched like a dog with fleas. “Aw, what’s wrong? Feeling a bit...itchy? Soap and water work miracles. Is it crabs? Maybe you’re allergic to yourself. I mean it wouldn’t surprise me if your own body was trying to get away from you.” Sienna said, holding back the urge to laugh hysterically. “Shut up, Sienna! This isn’t funny.” Paige whimpered, continuing to scratch. “It can’t be that bad.” Sienna smirked. “You know there’s probably a cream for that itch.” “I know you’re totally getting off on watching me naked, Arkansas. You didn’t have to go to these extremes to do it.” Paige said, clearly pretending she was stronger than her itch. “Wow! You’re more delusional than I thought you were. Listen, I'm a nice person and I won't spread any rumors about you and your....Uncontrollable urge to scratch but if you mess with me again, I promise next time I won't be so nice. Oh and by the way I'm not a fan of slumber parties so find somewhere else to hook up with your little girlfriends.” Sienna said, blowing a kiss at Paige while walking away. Sienna walked out of the showers proud of herself and listened one last time as Paige screamed from the combination of anger and itching.

In life's event chain fate loves irony. So don't get defensive its not a rumor i'm a bit masochistic a mix of illogical and realistic need a love who understands dark humor. I laugh at tragedy and flirt with pain, kiss me through melancholy let's dance in the rain.

You all know one another?" Wyatt had a better poker face. "Jess and I go way back. I used to be her boss." He winked at me. "I always loved your Halloween style." He pointed to my suit. I mustered a smile. "I know Wyatt very well. How'd that Beauchamp deal turn out?" I knew Hamilton Cooper had lost that opportunity after I left; it was all over the trade news. Rumor had it that Wyatt was the sole reason HC lost that deal. Wyatt coughed into his coffee. "Damn, Jess. That was an NHL-level body check. You go in the penalty box." I smirked. A triumphant verbal takedown.

And Jesus answered and said to them, Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many. And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name's sake. And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another. And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many. And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.

Mayonaise" Fool enough to almost be it Cool enough to not quite see it Doomed Pick your pockets full of sorrow And run away with me tomorrow June We'll try and ease the pain But somehow we'll feel the same Well, no one knows Where our secrets go I send a heart to all my dearies When your life is so, so dreary Dream I'm rumored to the straight and narrow While the harlots of my perils Scream And I fail But when I can, I will Try to understand That when I can, I will Mother weep the years I'm missing All our time can't be given Back Shut my mouth and strike the demons That cursed you and your reasons Out of hand and out of season Out of love and out of feeling So bad When I can, I will Words defy the plan When I can, I will Fool enough to almost be it And cool enough to not quite see it And old enough to always feel this Always old, I'll always feel this No more promise no more sorrow No longer will I follow Can anybody hear me I just want to be me When I can, I will Try to understand That when I can, I will Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream (1993)

Few people have to watch their country die,” Hannah said, her lyrical voice all the more captivating because she spoke softly. Althea found herself leaning toward her, and she imagined the rest of the audience was no different. “I have had that dubious privilege, and I can tell you that it comes not as a rebel shout but as a sly whisper. The cracks creep in, insidious as anything I’ve ever seen. It can start with rumblings about an unreliable press and rumors about political enemies that will threaten your family, your children. It can deepen with each disdainful remark about science and art and literature in a pub on a Friday night. It comes cloaked in patriotism and love of country, and uses that as armor against any criticism.

I have had that dubious privilege, and I can tell you that it comes not as a rebel shout but as a sly whisper. The cracks creep in, insidious as anything I’ve ever seen. It can start with rumblings about an unreliable press and rumors about political enemies that will threaten your family, your children. It can deepen with each disdainful remark about science and art and literature in a pub on a Friday night. It comes cloaked in patriotism and love of country, and uses that as armor against any criticism.